


The Wédefosse Reclamation

by Wightpants



Category: Babblebrook (Web Series), Goodnight Moon ASMR
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Harbington, Macabre, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wightpants/pseuds/Wightpants
Summary: Nightshade has a tale to share with us about a troubled soul and her misadventures around Lancaster and Harbington.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Goodnight Moon for creating the wonderful Babblebrook universe for us in her ASMR videos.
> 
> Whilst the core of the story might make sense to those unfamiliar with the videos, some of it will undoubtedly fall flat. I recommend watching the video series first. :)
> 
> ***SPOILER**Warning*The story does get a bit macabre, so not quite as nice and relaxing as fans of the video series might be used to.*Warning**SPOILER***

_“Well, hello again! I must say, you’re rapidly on your way to becoming my most loyal customer. I see you’ve even managed to avoid my Crawling Crimsons this time. Well, do come in and take a seat. Dry your coat by the fire._

_Ha, you think I’m being unusually hospitable do you? Well, as it happens, before we get down to business, I_ do _have a little something for_ you _._

_I recently spoke with a young lady who had some information for me… information regarding a certain gentleman who I have been anxiously trying to trace for some time. Anyway, she was quite keen to share her story with me under the proviso that I, in turn, pass it on to other folk so that they might… learn from her endeavours. Now, I have had to fill in one or two gaps from other sources but, as this is not my tale to tell, I promise to relay her story… exactly, as it was told to me.”_

_  
_ ***


	2. Chapter 2

Standing up straight with my feet together, I felt confident and in control whilst showing the appropriate deference. The captain hadn’t been hard to spot. Unmissable, really. Her bronzed skin and array of jawbone piercings marked her out as one most definitely not from Lancaster. Though she didn’t look any taller than myself or particularly well built, she dominated the mahogany booth in the lounge of The Dragon’s Head Inn.

“You have sailed a foor-mast galleon before?” she asked. There was an unfamiliar inflection in her accent, though she spoke clearly enough to be heard above the din.

“Twice, with the Cooperage Line, Captain,” I lied without hesitation. I’d sailed a three-mast carrack before. I was sure I could pick up the rest as I went along.

She held my gaze for a moment. “If I put you ‘pon my ship, it’s to work. We do not carry passengers.”

“I understand. I’m a good worker,” I said.

“So our mutual friend tells me. Should I trust him?” she asked.

I took a second. “You can trust him as much as I do,” I offered.

She laughed at that.             

“The East Grahmia Company requires all crew to wear standard merchant uniform with royal insignia. We do not provide them. Any tailor or outfitters in Lancaster shood be able to make them up for you,” she said. “If you are serious, that is.”

“I’m serious, Captain,” I said.

She continued to look carefully at me, though her posture softened a little.

“We set sail at sundown, a week tomorrow. All crew must report for duty one hour before. Do not be late,” she said, turning back to her companion and lifting her large glass of port. She glanced back at me. “If you are serious,” she said.

I was serious.

  
*


	3. Chapter 3

Our mutual ‘friend’ was back at our table in one of the noisier corners of the inn’s barroom. He was going by the name of Zerrick. He had told me he was a merchant trading out of the northern towns and that this was his first time in Lancaster. He was very vague about how old he was, but sometimes I got the impression he was even older than he looked. The more he did tell me about himself, the less convincing he became. But he had produced the captain as promised and now he produced the rest of the goods.

“Keenweed oil,” he said, holding a tiny jar just below the table top. He must have noticed a sceptical look on my face. “It’s potent stuff. There’s enough there to keep you awake and alert for two days straight,” he added. He looked up at me without lifting his head, the sea of wrinkles on his forehead supporting the prow of his silvery widow’s peak.

I tried to put all thoughts of sailing from my mind and nodded my consent. “That’s more than enough, thanks,” I said.

He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes as he pressed the jar into my hand and pulled a small brown paper bag from his coat pocket.

“Dried kipfern,” he said. “Enough to knock you out. Though not for two whole days.” He leaned back and frowned at me. “I’m not sure what’d happen if you took ‘em both at once, mind.” His eyes widened. “Maybe you’d end up sleepwalking all day. Or fall asleep with your eyes open!” He laughed at his latest little attempt at humour. His red pockmarked cheeks bulged in that odious way they did.

Seeing me less than impressed, he composed himself and gave me a more business-like look. “I can get you something stronger than that if you like,” he said. “If you really want to put someone to sleep, make sure they don’t wake up, savvy?”

“I just need to help my aunt get a full day’s sleep, that’s all,” I said. “I’m not trying to slay a dragon!”

It was at that moment I realised how restless he had become since we’d got to Lancaster. He stopped dead still before slowly turning himself to fully face me, unblinking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

I know how to handle the likes of Zerrick, but I didn’t need a confrontation. Not now.

“This will do just fine, Zerrick. Thanks,” I said, with as much sincerity as I could muster. He eyeballed me for a little longer before pursing his lips again and turning back to his drink with a small nod.

A bell and a call for last orders stirred up a renewed cacophony from around the bar. “Anyway, I’m tired and I have to be up early, so…” I started to get up from the table, “…and thanks, again, for these,” I said, patting my pocket.

He mumbled some kind of acknowledgement into his pint before I turned and picked my way through the frantic bar area. I tucked a few loose strands of hair back into my ponytail and stepped out into the warm summer night.

  
*


	4. Chapter 4

I left the city by the eastern gate and took the path south to my ‘aunt’s’. She wasn’t really my aunt of course. Ursula Waterhouse – the last incumbent of Wédefosse Farm. She worked hard, for her age, but was hopelessly overwhelmed there. She and her husband only had one child: a son, Ryan. By the time Ryan was killed fighting for the Queen’s Own Light Infantry, they were too old to have any more. Now her husband was gone too and she needed to employ a worker to have any chance of keeping the farm going. She didn’t offer good wages, but I had my own plan to make sure it paid well.

She could have paid a decent wage. She could have made her life much easier if she’d just sold the star: The Royal Star of Lancaster, awarded to ‘persons of great valour, as distinguished by acts of prodigious bravery and heroism, above and beyond the call of duty, in the face of overwhelming odds’. Also known as ‘running headfirst into battle like a suicidal moron’. For his ignominious contribution to the military of dying in the first moments of his first battle, Ryan’s family were rewarded with a medallion that was worth a small fortune.

She could have sold it. She could have sold the farm too. But no. They were her links to the past. She and her husband swore never to sell their beloved son’s medal. She could never go back on that. And it would be a betrayal to her ancestors to sell the farm. Ancestors whose names and stories were long since lost to time.

This was just a sample of the sentimental superstitious prattle that grated on me so during my summer on Wédefosse Farm.

  
*


	5. Chapter 5

I look down from the window. Ursula stands in the meranti grove holding a shovel and looking up at me expectantly. Now I’m standing in front of her. She tosses a mound of earth from the shovel before holding the handle out to me. As she does so, her hands and arms turn a deep red colour. Glowing cracks appear in her skin and a wave of heat billows over me. I open my mouth, but I can’t breathe…

                                                                   
*


	6. Chapter 6

I woke up gasping. As glad as I was to find I could breathe, the oppressively warm air in my room provided limited relief.

I washed and breakfasted as quickly as I could and went and found Ursula in the fields. She was trying to dig a furrow with the ridging hoe but the dry soil was having none of it. I took over as she sat her tiny gnarled old frame on a nearby, empty, water barrel.

The meranti trees towered above the farm. The canopies surprisingly still, held steady by their thick yellow trunks. Leaves and bark were strewn around their bases. Ursula must have seen me looking over at the meranti grove. “It’ll rain soon, Arlette. Next few days,” she said, nodding over at the trees.

I wondered if I should ask her how she knew, just to humour her, but I didn’t need to bother.

“It’s those two,” she said, pointing to the grove, “and that one over there by the corner of the bean field.” She held out her left hand toward me, palm downwards. “See? Those two there... and that one over there.” She pointed out two moles from the cluster in the middle of her hand and then the one next to the knuckle of her little finger. All three glistened with some kind of ointment she’d applied to them. “Been getting itchier for the last couple of days now. That means rain, those three. My merantis look after me, never let me down.”

As obvious an old wives’ tale as it was, I took the opportunity to look at her moles again. They were laid out in an uncannily similar pattern to the meranti trees on the farm: each of the seven trees in the central grove, plus the four at each corner of the farm. They were all matched by the moles on the back of her left hand. I looked at the trees, then back to her hand again. The patterns matched up well enough, though the distances didn’t seem right. I wondered if she’d had the trees planted there just so they matched up with her moles, but surely the trees had been there a lot longer than she had.

“We’ll have some marvellous compost after it rains,” she said. “See all the bark and the leaves under the trees? When the rain falls on that, up come the worms and all the little beasties to nibble away.” The deep wrinkles on her face intensified as she smiled to herself. “Sometimes get enough compost from one tree to cover a whole field!”

“Really?” I said, trying not to sound too cynical.

  
*


	7. Chapter 7

I remember the trees we had in our garden when I was younger. Not great big lumbering yellow things. These were green and perfect. Perfect spheres and cones. The gardener kept them that way. Father had hired him after he’d become an officer. He’d served in the Queen’s Own Regiment too. He survived enough battles until eventually his intelligence and financial nous were recognised by his commanders and he was given an administrative position.

I was savouring the trees and the dahlia beds by the summer house when they came for him. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I saw his face at the window. Father had given us a good life. Better than a man of his standing ought to have, as it turned out. Some of his fellow officers had become suspicious of his lifestyle. They reported their concerns to command and his embezzlement was uncovered. I can still see that look on his face as we gazed upon each other for the last time.

Mother tried to protect me from the trial. Eventually though, I heard how he pleaded for mercy. But there would be no mercy from a military court for stealing from the crown. He was tried as a traitor and ordered to be taken to the oubliette.

They took everything from us and we found ourselves on the streets. Mother couldn’t cope and didn’t last the year. No one would take in the daughter of a traitor, so there was nothing left for me but the orphanage.

  
*


	8. Chapter 8

“I could do with some new clothes,” I said casually whilst watering the barley field a few days later. “Something nice, that actually fits me properly. Who’s a decent tailor in Lancaster?”

“In Lancaster?” Ursula asked, propping herself up with the rake. “Not sure there’s any good ones in the city nowadays. They all rush things too much. Don’t take the time to measure up properly. Shoddy sewing work. Just so they can have it made up ‘within the hour’, or whatever their latest gimmick is.” She stared out across the field at nothing in particular, rubbing the top of her left arm thoughtfully. “If you want things done professionally, with precision, you want to go to the Harbington Haberdashery. Still do things properly there.”

“Harbington? That’s miles away isn’t it?” I asked.

She continued staring across the field for a moment before turning to me. “Take tomorrow off,” she said. “If you go first thing in the morning, they can probably have your order ready before the day’s out. Won’t be rushed though.”

“What about the farm?” I asked a little too hastily, though I didn’t have time to regret it.

“Oh, I’m not sure there’s much we can achieve here. Water tower’s nearly empty and there’s precious little we can do with the soil in this state,” she replied, kicking up some dust with her toe. “In fact,” she continued, “why don’t we call it a day here now, Arlette? You can take those roots we harvested this morning into market.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” I said, looking at the pitiful state of the field.

“You can take Jack with you if you like,” she said.

“I don’t think it would be worth it to be honest, Ursula,” I replied.

Jack was the old mule. He couldn’t work on the uneven fields any more. He could only manage the flatter paths and roads into the city and back. And even then it took him some time to pull the cart. The sensible thing to do would have been to sell him to the tanner, but Ursula’s husband had bought him to work the farm. And Ryan had loved him so much. So, he became as much of a hindrance as a help, another mouth to feed.

I looked at the pile of root vegetables we’d gathered that morning. “I’ll fit them in my satchel,” I told her.

“Don’t worry,” she smiled up at me. “Rain’s coming. Any day now,” she said, rubbing the back of her left hand.

I looked up at the sky. Not a cloud. Just endless blue, punctured by a blazing white sun that baked the earth.

  
*


	9. Chapter 9

I bumped into one of Zerrick’s cronies on the way to the market. He told me Zerrick had packed all his things and headed north the day before. I didn’t need him anymore, but I didn’t like the way he’d just scarpered like that without warning. It worried me. On the way to market, I decided to check out the old cabin he’d been dossing in just inside the woods to the west of the city.

The trees were thick there and the canopy made it uncomfortably dark. I squinted through the windows. There were no signs of life. I couldn’t see any of Zerrick’s belongings. He seemed to be well and truly gone. I tried the door. It was locked and I wasn’t about to waste time and energy trying to force my way in.

As I stepped away from the door, I heard a small snap. Then a whoosh. Something tightened viciously around my ankles! The breath was sucked out of me as I was hauled sickeningly up into the air by my bound feet. My satchel opened and a turnip smashed into my cheek as vegetables rained down around me.

As the swinging motion began to subside, I regained a little composure. Who would put such a trap here? Had Zerrick just feigned his departure? Was he out to trick someone? Me? Had I told him too much? Was I being double crossed?

I twisted left and right to get a look around, to see if I was watched. But there was no one in sight. All the more of a shock I got then, when a dark figure appeared in front of me from nowhere. I flinched and felt my arms wrap themselves around my body in some futile attempt at protecting myself. I made out a flash of black feathers. Then a golden skull… The Nightshade Witch!

“Well hello there!” she said. Her dark lips grinned broadly at me. Her terrible beauty filled me with fear, but I found it impossible to avert my eyes. She tilted her head to look at me and frowned. “You do have a familiar face, but it’s not the one I was hoping to see.” She looked over at the cabin. “And whose face might you have been hoping to see in there?” she asked.

“Trappers,” I said quickly. I had bought curses from Nightshade a couple of times to fix certain problems when I was in the orphanage. I probably shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was that she remembered my face.

“Trappers?” she asked, looking confused. Then her eyes began to widen. “I think you must mean…” she gasped, “…poachers!” She clasped one hand to her chest. “But,” she stammered, “that’s illegal!”

There was a small pause. Then she burst into laughter. “Why, I simply must tell the authorities!” she mocked.

I realised with some relief that I had become a victim of her legendary razor sharp wit.

“Now why would you be around here looking for poachers, my dear girl?” she asked.

“They buy my vegetables, for their stews,” I said. I could feel the blood beginning to pool in my head. I hoped a reddened face wouldn’t betray my deceit.

Nightshade looked at me for a second before crouching down to where the mass of the crops from my satchel had fallen.

“Let me see… turnips, carrots, and… oh… what… is this?” she asked, rising to face me again.

“It’s a radish,” I said.                        

“A radish?” she asked before bursting into laughter again. “This is supposed to be a radish? Oh my poor girl!” She sniggered once more at the, admittedly, measly excuse for a vegetable before tossing it aside.

She looked at the cabin then back at me. She wasn’t laughing. “Tell me, who has been living in there these last couple of weeks?” she asked.

“I haven’t been this way for months…” I managed to get out before I heard the sound of metal being unsheathed and felt something sharp at my neck. “I swear!” I said. I was so steeped in lies that the words came automatically. I believed them myself to the extent that it somehow even managed to fool Nightshade’s incredible powers of perception.

She looked at me for a moment longer, then down at the vegetables. She smiled back at me. “Well, if you do happen to find out anything about any… interesting people who have been staying here recently, do be sure to let me know. You will be well rewarded,” she said.

With a flash of her cape she turned and glided majestically into the undergrowth.

I started to reach up, trying to get to the vines around my ankles that were beginning to cut into my flesh. Just as I was about to reach them, they suddenly gave way. I was dumped in a heap, where I lay for a while getting my breath. Something dug uncomfortably into the back of my ribs. Reaching down behind me, I pulled out a tiny, misshapen radish.

  
*


	10. Chapter 10

Ursula stands in the meranti grove holding a shovel and looking up at me expectantly. Her skin is scaly and red. Great horns curve up from the centre of her head and a pointed tail snakes around her hooved legs. The demon holds the handle out to me. As I take it, a wave of heat billows over me. The sky is aflame but the ground is sodden. I try to dig but mud slides into the hole as fast as I can shovel it away…

  
*


	11. Chapter 11

The sheets were damp with sweat. I was getting less and less sleep each night. What little I did get was torturous.

I wasn’t entirely convinced that some country bumpkins would provide me with a better uniform than a city tailor. Nonetheless, I wasted little time in setting off for Harbington.

The path south took me through lush green woodland teeming with gentle birdsong. The oak trees afforded plenty of shade and the cooler air made the walk invigorating. By the time I reached the town I had forgotten all about my dreams and the lack of sleep.

I found the haberdashery just where Ursula had described it.

“I need a standard merchant navy uniform with royal insignia. Two sets, please,” I said to the haberdasher.

“Certainly madam,” she replied. She spoke as smartly as she dressed. Her large round glasses conferred the vigilance of an owl and her clothes were reassuringly well crafted. “Would madam like the frock or the trouser suit?” she asked.

I looked at her in disbelief. “The trouser suit of course! What kind of woman wears a frock to sail through the Eastern Winds?” I said.

“My apologies, madam,” she replied, carefully adjusting her spectacles. “The trouser suit is, of course, an admirable choice. However, we at the haberdashery care not to prejudge or presume the clothing preferences of our customers. When realising the art and mystery of our trade, we seek not to offend, but merely to extend the broadest buffet of apparel to the minds and wardrobes of our valued clientele, so we _always_ offer a choice.”

Her calm but authoritative manner set me at ease and I felt I was in good hands.

“Feet together, standing straight, please,” she said.

I clicked my heels together as the tape measure whirred around me. A warm feeling spread out from the crown of my head and down my body. I was worried that I might pass out, but once the measuring was complete, I left the haberdashery feeling more relaxed than I had done for a long time.

I spent the morning looking around the various shops in Harbington. The menagerie, in particular, was quite an experience. The young woman there seemed very knowledgeable about (if somewhat overwhelmed by) the vast array of creatures in her shop. Her enthusiasm was infectious. So much so that it didn’t even irk me when one of the critters tied my shoelaces together and sent me sprawling headfirst into a barrel of birdseed. She must have been impressed with my temperament as she even offered me a job helping out in the shop.

I went to the tea shop for lunch where the proprietor regaled me with all kinds of tales of varying likelihood. Eventually I felt a headache coming on so I left and headed down to the river bank where I spent the afternoon skimming stones and watching the kingfishers diving for food.

As the shadows grew longer, I headed back into town towards the haberdashery. I heard some commotion as I passed the menagerie. I stopped and looked through the window. The young woman was trying to gently coax something brown and furry into the opened front end of a carrying cage. She almost had it, when another strange looking creature, all limbs and elbows, came scampering over her back. It jumped on the cage, opened the rear door and both creatures went scurrying off in opposite directions.

I wanted to go in and help.              

I wanted to go in and stay.

But I couldn’t. I’d come too far now. Anyway, there was bound to be more menageries like that in the east wasn’t there? More? Bigger? Better? I had the rest of my life to find my vocation. Or vacation.

I went and collected my uniform (and the casual outfit I’d also ordered) from the haberdashery and set off back to the farm.

  
*


	12. Chapter 12

Ursula stands in the meranti grove holding a shovel and looking up at me expectantly. She holds the handle out to me. As I take it in my red, scaly hands, a wave of heat billows over me. Boiling rain pours down. I thrust the shovel into the damp soil with a crack. Then a rumble as I lift the shovel, tearing weeds and roots and scattering a fountain of earth and insects into the air…

  
*


	13. Chapter 13

I spent my last day on the farm in a trance. I don’t know if it was the tiredness or just preparing, steeling myself for what I was about to do.

I mixed the kipfern with Ursula’s garlic butter to mask the taste and smell. I was going to keep my keenweed oil until I was on my way and starting to flag but I was worried I might fall asleep in my room, so I drank it as soon as I went up to bed.

I waited an hour. Then another, watching the trees sway gently in the moonlight and listening to Jack occasionally shuffle around on his dry stable floor. Then I had to make my move.

I knew Ursula had to be deeply asleep by now, though I couldn’t help but creep out of my room onto the landing. I knew where all the creaky floorboards were by now and there were plenty of them. It had taken much time and patience to learn where she kept The Star; more to discover where she kept the key.

The Royal Star was in the bottom draw of the solid oak dresser outside Ursula’s room. I lifted it out carefully – it weighed a ton! I looked at it. It was impressive alright. I’d been trying not to, but now I couldn’t help but wonder how Ursula would feel when she saw it gone. She was stupid and it was wasted on her, but she was kindly enough. If only there was some way of doing this without inflicting the inevitable misery on her. I slipped the star into my rucksack, along with my uniform, other clothes and some food and drink I’d packed for the long walk ahead.

A growl. From Ursula’s bedroom. I froze.

Stealthily, I picked up the candelabra from the dresser outside her room. I held it by the top end, with the heavy base held high above my head. I gently pushed open her door.

A growl. A snore. She was just snoring.

I stood over her a moment, to make sure she really was sleeping. I thought about her waking up the next evening. To find me gone. The star gone. Her heart breaking.

It didn’t have to be like that.           

But what the hell. She could have sold the star. Sold the farm, the mule. That was her choice. She could live with the consequences.

I quietly backed out of the room, replaced the candelabra, picked up my rucksack and set off for the river path north toward the harbour.

  
*


	14. Chapter 14

So here I am now. On the path somewhere between Lancaster and the harbour. Rags and riches. Damnation and salvation.

Dawn has rendered the path an orange and gold canal and though I don’t feel tired now, it reminds me I should eat. I stop and sit by the base of a tree. As I unwrap my cheese sandwich, something falls on my hands. Wet. I look at the ground and see the first spots of rain appearing. I don’t particularly want to get soaked for the long day’s walk ahead, but it would be a welcome change from the dry heat I’ve endured for the last few weeks.

I’m half way through my sandwich when I look up and see someone approaching from the north. As they get closer I realise it’s a woman with a dog. I’d rather not be seen by anyone until I’m closer to the harbour, but really that’s just paranoia; my theft won’t be discovered until after I’ve set sail. The woman is wearing what looks like some kind of ball gown, a bit old fashioned. Whatever it is, it seems strangely extravagant for a morning dog walk.

“Hello,” she says, stopping in front of me. This irritates me immediately but I have to humour her.

“Hello,” I say.

Her dog sniffs around my feet.

“You’re going on a big journey,” she says, looking down at her feet which she shuffles around nervously.

I feel my heart quicken as I wonder how she knows, but then I look at my rucksack, which makes it fairly obvious.

“Yeah,” I say, “far away from here.”

“Oh,” she says, a confused look forming on her pale face. For someone who stops to converse with strangers, she doesn’t seem too good at it.

“Like bread?” I ask nodding at the dog, but she’s not paying attention.

“What?” she asks.

“Would your dog like some of this bread?” I explain, tearing some of the crust from my sandwich.

“Oh… well… he might have some… yes,” she says eventually.

I throw the bit of crust on to the ground. There’s something odd about the way the dog eats it though; like the bread floats up into its mouth and disappears or something. Maybe the keenweed doesn’t compensate for all the effects of sleep deprivation. I hope I can keep myself together long enough to get underway on the ship!

“Well… thank you,” she says as the rain starts to get heavier. “I’ll see you again soon,” she waves as she turns away. “Come on Winnie!” she calls to the dog as they hurry off down the path.

‘See you again soon’? Haven’t we just established that I’m going on a long journey far away from here? Really, some of the simpletons you have to deal with around here!

I finish my sandwich, make sure all my things are packed in my rucksack and push myself to my feet.

I try to take a step but my feet don’t move. I crash forward and feel my left ankle twist violently.

Damn!

I pull myself back towards the tree where I’ve been sitting and where my feet are now stuck fast. They’re wedged between the roots of the tree where they must have slid in while I was eating. I can’t pull them out while I’m sitting here. My ankle is sore but I don’t think it’s sprained. I ease myself up against the trunk of the tree until I’m standing. The rain is steadily getting heavier and making things slippery. I take turns wriggling each foot, but I can’t loosen them.

Then, as I watch in astonishment, another root from the tree lifts up and wraps itself around my ankles!

Before I can think what to do, it hauls me down into the softening earth so far that my knees are now level with the ground.

What is this?

“Nightshade! NIGHTSHADE!” I call. This is someone’s magic at work, surely! But there is no response.

“HELP! HELP!” I shout back down the path. The woman with her dog only passed a minute or so ago. They can’t be far. Yet I can see for miles back down the path and they’re nowhere to be seen.

A deep rumble signals another fierce pull from the roots and I’m up to my chest in the earth!

The gods!

I put my arms out. It can’t pull me under if I can keep my arms out. The rain hammers down loudly all around me. The sweet petrichor fills my nostrils and despite my peril I can’t help but think of our family garden where I used to play amongst the perfect trees.

Another powerful wrench. I hear a sickening crack and feel the pain searing through my right arm as it breaks close to the shoulder.

The gods, this is really happening!

The earth is up to my lips now. I spit out the leaves and bits of bark that have fallen into my mouth as my breathing spirals out of control.

Daddy! I’m so sorry, Daddy!

I look across the ground and see the trillipedes and skin beetles that have been scattered by the commotion. They are turning back towards me. Curious. Ravenous.

I won’t do it again! I promise! I’ll do things right next time! I’ll be good!

I avert my eyes from the approaching horrors, looking up to the sky. The towering yellow trunk of the meranti tree, stretching up towards the rain, is the last thing I see before a final yank pulls me down into the darkness.

  
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	15. Chapter 15

_A few days later, an old maid was walking into town when she met Ursula coming the other way with her mule pulling a small cart._

_“Still working hard, Ursula?” asked the old maid._

_“Oh, it’s you,” she replied, scratching her arm. “Just off to collect some compost.”_

_“You should hire some help. You shouldn’t be toiling away every day at your age,” said the maid._

_“Well, I did have some help until recently. Good worker she was.” She looked thoughtful. “Seemed like a nice girl too. Was even thinking of writing her into my will. Seems she’s chosen a different path though…”_

_“Well, I can’t see you carrying much compost in that little cart,” said the maid._

_“Oh, I don’t need much,” said Ursula. “And this cart’s just the right size. Got the precise measurements from a professional. Some folk still have each other’s backs around here you know!” she said._

_With that, Ursula carried on her way, scratching the top of her left arm as she went._

_  
***_


	16. Chapter 16

_“Oh, my dear! I’m so sorry! Didn’t I mention beforehand?_

_The young lady in question came to me as one of my beloved spirits. Yes, I’m afraid she’s trapped in limbo now, doomed to relive her dreadful demise, and the path which led to it, again and again and again for…_

_Well, for quite some time yet, I should imagine.”_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story writing I've done in a long time. I will be grateful for all feedback, especially constructive criticism. Also, please feel free to ask any questions if anything doesn't make sense.


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